


A Conquest

by Riemann_integrable



Series: Curse of Strahd: despacito [1]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Drunk Sex, Gay Sex, I Strahd - Memoirs of a Vampire, Incest, M/M, Power Play, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 02:10:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20987093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riemann_integrable/pseuds/Riemann_integrable
Summary: Strahd's envy towards his brother gets entangled with a myriad other feelings he can't tell apart anymore. Wine just seems to complicate the problem further.





	A Conquest

**Author's Note:**

> Fate wants this to be the first fic for the Strahd novel. At least to my knowledge, let me know if there's more.

Strahd can't explain what he feels towards Sergei.

Though a phrase like that could apply to pretty much anyone in his life — what concern did he ever want to have for feelings, after all? — he realizes he could write an entire, separate memoire about his brother. It's not a subject of pondering as often as Tatyana is, during the long hours of nostalgic brooding, but one will inevitably remember in a span of four hundred years.

The worst thing about Sergei is that he's a very vivid memory. As if the vitality in him is enough to keep him alive in some form even after death. Even after a death Strahd, himself is responsible for. He's simultaneously real and surreal, just as he was in his life, especially on the day they first met.

Strahd didn't know what to expect on that day, and admittedly, there was no way he could have predicted exactly how the events would go so a certain amount of anxiety was a normal reaction. He only wishes he could describe what emotion it was replaced with when Sergei hopped off that horse and stood before him with that expression. Innocent and naïve and enthusiastic. With his pretty blue eyes and smooth skin. And what was one supposed to feel when confronted with an improved version of himself?

Well, that's how Strahd tries to see the situation for the months — years — that follow, or even now. That Sergei is _him but better_, pushing in the back of his mind all the features that differ between the two of them because they would ruin the bitter poetry of this comparison. For a while it's an inner battle seeing him waltz around in Ravenloft cheerily, between his forced parallel where he _could have been him_, and his pride clinging to his already existing personality.

Sergei walks into his study room sometimes; he does knock but comes in regardless, and Strahd wants to get angry for about ten seconds but is calmed down by a strange sense of endearment. Because his brother is enchanted, absolutely smitten with the tiniest details of the keep and the compliments aren't, deep down, unwelcome.

"You had this built recently! So many books..." 

Strahd can see his eyes sparkling from the desk he's sitting at. He smiles back briefly, returning to the magic tome as politely as possible.

"You're here quite a lot" the other speaks again.

"I haven't read most of my library, actually. I'm trying to give it justice." Strahd closes the book and turns around with the chair, not entirely averse to having a conversation. Sergei has an odd way of putting him at ease despite his general dislike for company.

"You always have been the smart one regardless, Strahd."

"That modesty is hardly convincing, how many languages do you speak?"

"Three," Sergei blushes, actually blushes, "but that doesn't even compare to magical arts. Or war strategy." The pleasant warmth of recognized superiority just begins to spread inside Strahd when he adds; "You should teach me sometime!"

There it is again, that bitterness so difficult to place, and that Strahd wishes he didn't have to feel. Is Sergei usurping his position intentionally or is he really so unaware of everything?

"I'm afraid some subjects can only be learned by ourselves — through experience."

Sergei stops examining the shelves and steps closer to the desk nevertheless. He inspects the book with fascination, leaning onto the hand he's placed on the surface, right by where his brother is sitting. Strahd attempts to read him, paying as much attention to his face as he is to the lines written on the page. It's a reoccurring thought how young he is; he looks even younger than his age, with traits that can only possibly belong to someone who hasn't been to war. Sergei's confusion regarding spells he presumably can't understand grows, and he shuffles closer, one strand of black hair almost brushing against Strahd.

Yes, it is difficult to explain what feeling it is when you want to simultaneously stroke someone's head and punch them in the face. 

It's a discomfort he starts feeling then, one that persists every time he's around his brother but that doesn't quite coincide with hatred. He has a childish urge to compete, to show he's better, though he can't tell anymore if he wants to prove it to everyone else, his own self, or Sergei. Their horseback riding sessions often end with Strahd kicking his horse bloody and then playing it off as an intentional act of royal cruelty; Sergei laps it up with a hint of disapproval but total inability to contradict him. He's almost, almost annoying in his blind worship. Strahd should know it's the paranoia making him suspect dishonesty, but then again, he's never known anyone with such an attitude, someone who will fawn over him with so much sincerity. He begins to avoid Sergei in a scant attempt to elaborate and get used to it, and so an awkward period of pretending to be busy every waking hour sets in.

It lasts a few weeks. Of course it would, they live together in a castle, practically isolated from the rest of the country. As per the tradition they celebrate the Solstice in the form of a banquet where the two will be obligated to coexist in the same room. Strahd is almost more nervous about it than his first time meeting his brother because what will it be today? What new skill or talent will be on display that Sergei is miraculously better at than he ever could have been at his age? In his stubbornness he decides he won't bother changing and walks into the main hall that evening, same as always, clad in his usual black and red.

Strahd is well aware that the bile rising in him when he sees Sergei chatting with two guests and sipping a glass of wine isn't appropriate for his forty-two years. And yet he grows pale with the same, unknown breed of irritation, almost forgetting about the surroundings. A part of him was hoping Sergei wouldn't look young, happy and beautiful — and that part has to be let down because he does. His hair seems freshly washed and his blue tunic matches perfectly the colour of his eyes. It's informal, almost indecent as an arrangement for an aristocratic event, and yet he's undeniably the best-looking person in the whole room. 

Planning out his evening of sitting in a corner and getting drunk off of brandy, Strahd shuffles further away towards the refreshers' table, then pretends to be very concentrated on some quail eggs. If he acts like he hasn't seen Sergei, maybe Sergei won't see him; he's too bitter to employ better tactical thinking than that. And speak — think — of the devil, his brother casts but a glance at him from the corner of his eye before he closes the distance with quick steps, almost bumping into some guests. It's an embarrassing eagerness. 

"I almost thought I wouldn't see you tonight!" Sergei smiles, maybe not as oblivious as one would think, the only prominent crease on his visage being his dimples. Oh, how Strahd loathes it all.

"I'm a tad—" he exhales, "_Tired_ for festivities." He's enveloped by a strangle gloom when he realizes the implication of him being old. He puts down the eggs.

"As expected. You've been so busy lately!"

Strahd has to squint at him for a moment, so much does the phrase teeter on the edge of sarcastic mockery. His eyes remain fixed on the healthy shine of Sergei's lips and the idea that his own haven't looked like that for a decade. Becoming aware of the tension and the increasing volume of the other attendants, Strahd decides to gesture his brother towards a sofa positioned further away from the mess. Sergei sits leisurely, throwing one leg loosely across the other — the grey velvet makes him look picturesque. Strahd begins to find his own envy intolerable. 

"Strahd, if you don't mind, can I ask you a question?" Sergei turns towards him and stares from under his set of long, straight lashes. 

"Whatever has made you think you can't talk to me freely." Barovia's lord, as generous as ever, gives a nod and a smile as he speaks, loathing the part of himself that means it with honesty.

"Have I upset you with my actions or attitude?"

The realization that Sergei has noticed, and then the next one that he looks nothing but incredibly sad about it, strike Strahd like two splashes of cold water. 

"You have done nothing wrong. I..." he struggles to come up with a convincing lie, "...can be moody at times. And there's no rhyme or reason to it."

"I'm relieved. The last thing I want is for you to hate me. As embarrassing as it is, I respect you terribly, Strahd. Almost desperately."

He laughs off the end of his ramblings because he does seem truthfully self-conscious. 

"Common sentiment among brothers. Please relax." Strahd places a hand on Sergei's shoulder and almost immediately regrets it as he feels a twitch of alarm. 

"Actually, it's different than with Sturm. I find his path in life admirable, too, but he doesn't have the... atmosphere you have. I can't quite explain it."

He leans back, and the hand from earlier moves to circle Sergei's shoulders — it forces them a little too close. It's an odd movement and Strahd didn't think it through but finds it more impolite to pull away. At least his brother doesn't seem as bothered as he should be, maybe because he _is his brother_; this would already be deemed inappropriate if there was a lady in his place. Strahd considers he should get rid of his tendency to let his thoughts wander on inane tangents. 

"Perhaps you have a difficult time seeing my flaws as you're not accustomed to them. I wasn't present when you grew up." He looks back at Sergei, who now seems almost as dejected as him. "And I wish I had been."

"You had important duties" Sergei sighs. "_I_ wish I had been born sooner so I could have been there with you... Like Alek Gwilym or your other companions."

Strahd can barely hide the personal offense he takes at that.

"Be grateful for your youth, Sergei. And for not being obliged to waste it away."

"The grass is always greener" the other deflects the heaviness of the conversation. "We should have a toast, rather. To my youth and to your honor."

Before Strahd can make a sour frown, Sergei is away and then back with a leather bottle full of red wine and two goblets. He hands it to his brother, conceding him the right to pour as a sign of reverence, and a moment later the two containers clink against each other ceremoniously. 

Between one tense dialogue and another, the bottle is emptied and then one more. Normally, Strahd would have enough control not to go over his limits with alcohol, but talking to Sergei and taking one hit to his ego after the other requires so much concentration he forgets about the rest. In fact, drunkenness makes it easier, more numb and less grating on his nerves. Sergei isn't sober either, it shows in how he doesn't notice the upper button of his tunic coming undone. In his position, sprawled as he is on the sofa, the soft crook of his neck is exposed in its almost radiant paleness. Luckily, the other guests aren't in the conditions to pay attention. 

"Sometimes," he says between chuckles, "sometimes I don't feel like you're my brother, but something more than that."

The wine doesn't make it any less of an odd thing to say, and Strahd stares as if demanding an explanation; his head pulses between flashes of the curtains on the window behind them and the other's strikingly blue eyes.

"Like a father or a sort of god" Sergei elaborates.

The next one bursts out of Strahd, irrevocably.

"Sometimes I don't feel like you're my brother either."

He leans in, his hand lifts, and by god, he's on the verge of strangling him, he has to pray inwardly for something to stop him. He, a commander in battle, has never wanted to kill someone as much as he does now. Sergei, instead, places a hand on his cheek in some dazed affection and breathes out.

"I'm so sleepy. Please help me so I don't soil your reputation further by losing my consciousness."

Strahd gives in. As unconspicuously as possible, he leaves the room with Sergei clinging to his neck. They stumble across dimly lit passages and corridors — the mental task of finding his accomodation in the labyrinth that is Ravenloft proves difficult enough to somewhat sober him. The same can't be said about his brother who leans into his shoulder, barely aware. He laughs sometimes, god knows at what entertaining thought running through his mind. Strahd is tolerant, almost lenient towards him like this, because he's vulnerable and flawed and in need of protection. But the temptation to kill him lingers, a horrible fixation that has wormed its way into his brain since the start of the banquet.

He doesn't act on it. Instead they arrive in front of the right bedchambers and Strahd almost opens his mouth to wish him a disingenuous goodnight, but Sergei hesitates to let go. He looks up, close to Strahd's face, and suddenly has the expression of someone who has understood everything. As if his pretty eyes could peel away every layer of dishonest friendliness — he meets the other's gaze with one that says _I know, I know how much you hate me, I know precisely_. But all he does is smile and pull lightly. There's a sudden agreement between them then.

After a momentary blank, Strahd finds himself kissing him. It seems like the only logical response, despite how little sense it actually makes. Sergei's lips are as soft as they look and they taste of wine. He moves against Strahd with a drowsy sluggishness, fingers tangling in the strands of his nape as if he's just fidgeting. Strahd understands then — he understands Sergei will wait for him to do something, wait to be amazed just like he was waiting to be kissed. He makes it harsh, halfway towards a bite and almost tears into the perfect shape of the flesh under his teeth. Sergei lets out a surprised yelp but doesn't back down, leans into his brother's arms with a devotion only a future priest would be capable of. 

Strahd kicks in the door and all but throws him backwards, resulting in a mixture of fear, surprise and lust. Of course, it all makes sense now; Sergei having a peculiar magnetism that women don't have, how easily he pulled him into this. Strahd is a conqueror, his modus operandi is eliminating all that stands in his way but assimilating all he can't eliminate. There's no way to completely get rid of Sergei even through murder, not of what he represents — and if this has to be the way for Strahd to make him his, then so be it. He shuts the door with a perhaps exaggerated ire. Sergei can barely blink before he kisses him again, obscenely and with a lot of tongue, taking delight in how much trouble he has breathing when they break away.

"That's—" Sergei smiles, casts a glance aside, looks excited as a puppy even now.

"Shut up, Sergei."

It's a spacious bed, entirely occupying the middle of the room. Strahd had it made with the most expensive satin sheets, tastefully arranged with the blue and green motives of the pillowcases. The decision wasn't made with the idea in mind that he would watch his brother's shiny waves of hair spread across it from only a few inches away. Strahd trails his lips down his jaw and sates all his curiousities towards what that skin feels to the touch — Sergei is delighted, more so than he should be, as even the mildest contact causes his exhales to turn into moans halfway. 

Thanks to his irresponsible drinking, his shirt needs little unbuttoning and soon Strahd's palm is roaming his abdomen, approaching his plexus. Sergei's breathing intensifies — Strahd can palpate it in the heaving of his chest — and he throws his head to the side in an expression that looks almost pained.

"Oh gods, Strahd..."

The impatience is evident, and so Strahd climbs closer above him, helping him out of the tunic with almost a sense of practicality as he arches his back. He kisses Sergei again when the noises get too loud for his liking (too loud for this phase anyway) and Sergei, for the first time, makes an attempt at active reciprocation. He tugs at the hem of the other's shirt, too, looking for buttons without finding them. 

"It's the... it's the wine..." he laughs at himself before being laughed at.

Strahd pins him back properly, holds his chin up with two fingers.

"You stay down."

It's a brief loss of self-restraint when he bites down on Sergei's neck. It catches him so off-guard he moans like a cheap inn's whore. He looks caught-up, nearly out of his mind as Strahd removes the rest of his clothing, only taking it slower when he's in his underwear. Sergei's painful-looking erection bulging inside it, his discomfort, only enhance his good looks. He was beautiful in a threatening way before, but now it's ideal because he'll become a conquest instead of competition. Lying with someone ties them to you in a way — and before Sergei knows it, he will be bound, in the deepest recesses of his mind, he will remember this intimacy and be influenced. If nothing else he will remember the purple hickey Strahd leaves right under his jaw for a few days.

He's barely bothered to take off his cloak and undo a few buttons when he pulls out Sergei's cock to stroke him at such a slow pace it's more agonizing than relieving; Sergei's gripping his other arm and digging his nails into the muscle as his body contorts, agitated and at a loss of words. 

"Ahhh... That's—" He almost utters something intelligible, but then Strahd takes his hand off on a whim and he goes quiet, the only remaining sound being his labored breathing.

"I can't have you lasting this short." Strahd is amazed by his own words, it sounds like a mundane reprimand. 

He takes his time to remove his shirt as Sergei stays on the sheets, already looking spent and out of energy. Ironic, with his vigorous youth. 

"Strahd, please...!" It's true, he looks at his brother like one would at a god.

"I don't intend to leave before satisfying myself as well," he glares as he unbuckles his belt, "I hope you're aware."

"Of course you can...! Of course you will." Sergei is desperate and uncontrolled. 

Then Strahd doesn't say a word, barely even touches him until he's coated his own erection with the lotion left in the bedchambers out of courtesy, so when he takes him, Sergei is overwhelmed. Strahd is between his legs so he can look him directly in the eyes — and really, he finds himself so much more appreciative of Sergei's well-proportioned traits and the black rivulets of his hair when they're all in disarray from being so full of Strahd's cock. 

He wants to deny there's anything else to it than a power play when he moves and fucking Sergei proves actually enjoyable — he _definitely_ wants to deny his own brother is better than the women he's been with. Strahd stops thinking and grabs his thigh harder to spread his legs further and keep thrusting into him. Sergei's mouth hangs open in a half-smile and it's a phantasmagorical image but also oddly predictable. 

"Strahd... Strahd..." It might be the same voice he prays in, "So good... please..."

"You're doing well, Sergei." Strahd leans close to his ear, aware that it's the only occasion he'll ever utter those words in.

Sergei chokes back somewhat of a sob — whether it's a correlate of sex or he's emotional about hearing praise is unclear — then moans loudly into Strahd's shoulder when he plunges in deep. The bed creaks under them with an obscene rhythm as they get pushed closer and closer to a climax. It's blissful, for a moment, it disguises itself as a passionate act devoid of the cynicism Strahd puts into it. 

He has half a thought about touching Sergei's cock again with some mysterious charity that overcomes him suddenly, but the other comes before he can even make the decision. Even the semen across his chest looks somewhat artistic, some of it catches in his locks. It sends Strahd over the edge sooner than he would like. Sergei shudders when he releases and pulls out, his gaze laced with utter fondness is etched into Strahd's mind for centuries to come as an ambiguous and unclassifiable image.

His brother is half-asleep from the alcohol and the sex when he's about to leave the room. In contrast, he's way more sober than he wants to be, his actions dawning on him just now. He's done worse, he tells himself, in fact Sergei has been particularly willing. As he reaches for the handle he muses whether there's something fitting to say but has the distinct sensation that no matter what comes out of his mouth he'll regret it.

"Don't speak a word of this. It didn't happen."

"Right." Sergei talks so slowly it's unsure if he's comprehended the request. "But we can make it _not happen_ again. If you want." He laughs, with that vitality he uses to chase off embarrassment.

"Reevaluate that tomorrow" Strahd suggests with a tired sigh. Dear god, _tomorrow_. They'll have to look each other in the face again.

"No matter what, your will is mine." Sergei shows him a sweet, dimpled smile.

"Then forget."

And with that Strahd leaves hastily through the door. He doesn't know what sort of emotion is making him walk so fast, keeping him as awake as if he's already had a good night's sleep. It has his muscles taut and his head dizzy but it doesn't fit into any of the boxes he would sort his feelings in. 

It's similar to what he feels when he presses his lips to the wound on his chest, on that spot they've already been, and gobbles his blood like a feral animal. There's a hint of it when he picks up his dead body. And then the years pass in the hundreds, until his concept of time begins to degrade and the lapses mesh together in confusion. His brother is long gone but — as they say — his killing seems like an event of yesterday. There's time to think about it from every possible angle, in every conceivable interpretation. And yet, he can't explain. 

After four hundred years Strahd still can't explain what he feels towards Sergei.


End file.
